


how we shall laugh at the trouble of parting

by scribacchina



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: ? - Freeform, Angst, Canon, Ghost!Percival, M/M, So much angst, i guess, its even worse cause it's ghost angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 13:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12277353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribacchina/pseuds/scribacchina
Summary: Credence Barebone is a mystery. So is the disappearing of former Director of Magical Security, Percival Graves.When Percival thought of his death, the last thing he imagined was ending up posing as a baby-sitter for what may be the most dangerous creature of the whole wizarding world.It’s not half as bad as it sounds.





	how we shall laugh at the trouble of parting

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm exhausted. 
> 
> Trick 15:
> 
> Following the events of Fantastic Beasts, one of the pair is dead (Graves or Credence - it’s up to you!) and one is alive, slowly recovering & readjusting to the world (again, up to you who!). The living wizard (Credence or Graves) and the ghost (Credence or Graves) meet and fall in love with each other. (Tingly ghostly kisses encouraged! <3) On Hallowe'en - when the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is thinnest - the ghost becomes corporeal again for one night…
> 
> I...don't have much to say about this one. Title is from the poem "Death Is Nothing At All", by Henry Scott-Holland.

It happens so quickly, Percival can't even register the pain. There is shock, a whole lot of rage, a hint of fear; but no pain. A green flash, a laugh. And then--

It happens too quickly. One moment he's staring up at Grindelwald, "Thank you for your services, Director"-- the next, he's floating above his own corpse.

Damn, he thinks. He looks like shit.

How long has he been in this basement? He needs to shave, and take a long bath. And a new change of clothes. He scratches at his cheeks, but doesn't really feel anything. Nothing is there, no sparse growth of hair, it just- nothing. There is nothing to touch, nothing to feel. 

And that's when realization hits him. His wounds have stopped aching, and his head feels clean. The anger and the fear, they've all subsided. Dulled. He feels numb. He feels-- 

Dead. 

Grindelwald is still laughing at him. Pointing at his airy, non-corporeal form with his wand, and, "Lumos maxima!" He yells. The light is so strong, so intense, and it's everywhere. Percival has to get out of there.

He groans, launching himself at the ceiling. The expanse of wood and cement making up the building do not prove to be an obstacle. The powerful stream of light follows him, and it shrieks, dead dead dead. You're dead. 

Yeah, Percival wants to scream. I noticed. 

It follows him, up up up into the heavens, until it suddenly stops. Grindelwald must have lost interest. When Percival opens his eyes again, he's flying. Under his feet, his own house. 

Well, that's just hilarious. The pointed roof of the Graves Manor looks back at him, somewhat dumbfounded. Percival feels a churn in his stomach, a sense of nausea. This is the apex of irony. 

His own house. The most safe place. The place he spent so many years in. Percival's father had built that house. His shelter, his sanctuary. Home sweet home, as they say, except, not. Home is not sweet anymore. Home is shit. Home is the last place he wants to be. 

Percival plummets through the air, at a speed he didn't think possible. Away from his home. From the wretched place where he died. The quiet countryside soon fades, trees giving in to grey skies and skyscrapers so high Percival can't see where they end nor where they begin. 

New York is swarming with life, magical and not. This is not unusual. Most cities of the world are populated by both the wizard community and the non magical one; some are so closely intertwined their citizens can barely tell the difference. 

Not in Amercia, though. Oh, America takes great care of keeping the two as separated as possible. He would know. He works - or, used to - for America. 

There is something amiss, however. Today, the forces of the universe have shifted some particular kind of way. Percival knows that, this usually means something bad has happened. 

Something bad, and extremely big, if wizards and witches have become so keen on meddling with their no-majs counterparts. 

There is Something decidedly Wrong about the city. Percival observes from afar. After five tedious minutes, spent failing to locate the source of his discomfort, Percival simply gives up. 

Perhaps, he thinks, it's the fact that you're dead. Your discomfort is so great, it's bleeding out onto everything you love. Percival holds that thought. Love. Everything he loves. Does he love this city? Does he love this country? 

Of fucking course he does. Hell, he died for them. And if no one will remember his name, if his body is never found-- so be it. He didn't go into this job looking for glory, or fame. He wanted to protect his people. 

Percival lets himself float, weightless, like a feather. He spends those few moments of peace coming to terms with his new condition. 

Alright. He's dead. Gone. No more. Trespassed. Kaput. Not coming back. 

What now? 

He has no idea what to do. What comes next? Is there a limbo somewhere ahead of him, reserved for wizards and witches? His family has never been religious. What he's heard of Paradise and Hell, it was only in passing: good guys to one, bad guys to the other. And that's about all he knows. 

Percival is embarrassedly ignorant on the matter and that makes him feel inadequate, despite knowing that there's no one to judge him on it. Can ghosts read books? He's gonna get a Bible as soon as possible, and read it from beginning to end, just to spite himself. 

It's the noise, that distracts him from his considerations. The desperate, agonizing cries. They're so high and so strong, a distinct call for help. Percival turns around, fast, because somehow, he knows this voice. 

But his memories are hazy, slow. It's like a thick fog, covering his thoughts. He tries to make sense of them, but it's like swimming through molasses. He cannot place a face to the voice - or a name for that matter - which is just infuriating. Has Grindelwald stolen his excellent memory, together with his life? 

Might as well check, he tells himself. Not that he's got anything to lose. 

It's not hard to find it, once he descends to a lower level. At first, Percival mistakes it for a cloud, but, no. Clouds aren't supposed to be that black. Clouds don't destroy everything they come in contact with. And, most importantly, clouds don't cry. 

Crowds of wizards and no-majs alike are trying to escape the not-clouds' fury. Ah, that explains it. 

They go as far as to step on one another, screaming obscenities of all kinds. Percival lowers to the ground, floating a few inches above the middle of the street. People pass him by without so much as a blink. They're too caught up running for their lives. 

Observing this utter shit-show, invisible bystander in the midst of it all, Percival is reminded of how pathetic humanity truly is. They're not so different from beasts, really. Wizards and no-majs, doesn't matter. They're all gonna die, magic or not. 

An unwelcome thought makes his way to the front of Percival's mind: was it worth it, then? Was it worth it, to die for this? What has he accomplished? Percival punches at the thought, sending it cowering in a corner. 

Shut up, Percival tells it. Shut the fuck up. This is not the time to be a cynical idiot. 

Percival follows the cloud, much like Grindelwald's light had followed him. He keeps a distance, but the more disaster the cloud causes, the more Percival's curiosity is peaked: why can't he remember? This voice, these pitiful moans-- so terribly familiar. 

Exasperated, Percival whirls around the cloud, coming directly face to... "face" with it. Stop, Percival says. Don't move. He uses his most commanding, severe tone. The one he uses to reprimand Junior Aurors. 

"Mr. Graves?"

The cloud comes to an abrupt halt. Its crying ceases, too, and Percival can finally recognize the ominous creature. The gears in his brain click, but the answer they elaborate is ridiculous. Percival refuses to believe--

"Credence?" 

Impossible, is the first word to come up in Percival's head. The fuck, short after. 

Without hesitation, he flies right into the screeching mass, just as it resumes its path. Percival is enveloped by the cloud, and the stench of death fills his nostrils. It is not as disturbing as it would have been in life, but still, such a high concentration is more than unusual. 

The boy is not exactly in there. He's-- shred to pieces, literally. All over the place. Like a puzzle carelessly thrown aside, scattered on the floor. His conscience is a disarticulate mess of emotions: anger, for the most part. Percival can relate. 

It's okay, he says, I'm angry too. 

Making sense of it is difficult, especially since Credence seems to try and fight back each and every one of his moves. But Percival is a resolute man, even in death. He goes looking for every piece, searching through dark tendrils that uselessly wrap around his limbs. 

Don't, he whispers, I'm going to help you. 

"This doesn't make sense," the remaining of what once was Credence Barebone says. Out of the corner of his eye, Percival catches a trace of his distressed expression. He reaches for it, offering a hand. Credence retreats into himself, with a distressed shrill. 

"Here", Percival calls, "--come to me". 

"Who are you," Credence spits through unnaturally sharp teeth, "--you you you devil, you--" 

Percival grabs onto him, drags him close. Hush. Together, they sink down, in a tangled heap of limbs. After the initial resistance, Credence latches onto Percival's non corporeal body - somehow - and gives in to a fit of ugly sobs. The black slowly recedes, slithering back into Credence's chest. 

Next thing Percival knows, they're not floating anymore. They've landed in the middle of Central Park - the non magical one.

He looks up to the starry midnight sky, and wonders just how long it took him to make this boy whole again. It felt like an eternity, but then again, this kind of things always require lots of time, don't they? 

There are lights in the distance; Percival feels several, very strong, very irritated magical forces marching towards them. Uh oh. This is bad news. Of course, Percival should have known he wasn't the only one who'd be attracted by Credence's antics. 

"Don't--," his attention is drawn back to his lap. Credence hiccups, knuckles pressed against his cheeks. Percival is about to unwind his arms from Credence's waist, give him space to breath, when, "--don't go. Don't leave me, please," he says. 

Percival looks deep into those dark brown eyes, caresses the curve of Credence's jaw. He nuzzles into Percival's hand, like a pup. 

Percival knows why he's still there. Why he hasn't ascended to some empirical dimension, where the ones like him ought to be. 

Someone has to look after the boy, he thinks, because the teams of terrified Aurors coming their way sure won't. Percival adjusts his grip on Credence. 

"Of course," he says, brushing a speck of black smoke away. 

"I'm not going anywhere." 

\---

Percival stares down at the hospital bed Credence is sleeping in. 

He looks so peaceful. His head lolled to the side, laying heavily on the pillows. Percival sweeps down enough to tuck a strand of his hair back in place, behind the ear. They're finally growing out of that terrible bowl-cut. 

Credence doesn't stir, too far gone into a dreamless rest.

He's been having less nightmares. Percival likes to think it's because of his presence, but it's more likely a side effect of those drugs they stuff him with. 

Not that he can actually see what Credence is - or isn't - dreaming. His ghostly powers do not extend to any kind of psychic ability, unfortunately. He can turn invisible at will. He can move objects, regardless of their weight; his strength seems to have doubled. And if he concentrates, he can accio small things. 

The best of his tricks, Percival keeps for emergencies only. It takes a toll on him, and risks to whisk him away in the process. First time he'd used all of his energy to create a barrier was the day he died: when the Aurors had cornered them - Credence - in the park. 

Percival had released a wave of magic so powerful, he broke half of the Aurors' wands before they could cast a spell. Everyone attributed the explosion of power to Credence, and nobody questioned the way he seemed to be holding onto thin air. 

The rest of the work, Percival had left to Tina - and her strange British friend. Newt Scamander -- Theseus's little brother. Percival had only met him once, during the war. But he'd heard stories of him, oh yes, since there was nothing else Theseus wanted to talk about. 

Newt this, Newt that. Percival would tease, "ah, so he's the reason you can't keep a girl, uh, Tessy?" 

But what does he know. He is an only child. No brothers or sisters to share the heavy name of the Graves family with him. It all weighs down on his shoulder. 

Or, well, it used to. 

Apparently, Scamander the Junior is just as reckless as his big brother; Percival doesn't know the whole story, it seems awfully complicated, and since can't ask any questions it is mildly confusing. 

But Percival has seen many strange things, and Queenie Goldstein strutting around with a No-maj man hanging from her arm isn't the strangest yet.

Tina Goldstein hopelessly in love, on the other hand, now that is something. 

Percival is careful not to let his presence known. The amount of procedures ghosts have to go through is enormous, and right now he does not have the time - or the will - to sit through endless examinations. 

More over, he doesn't want to talk about his death, which he would be compelled to do. 

He has only one obligation, and it is to Credence. 

This affairs of theirs has been going on for half a year. Percival has seen Credence go from this close to death, to starving - without any repercussion on his body. Say what you want about the Obscurus, it is one smart parasite. 

Recovery is bad, but necessary. The Healers can't figure out how Credence is still holding up, what with the way his internal organ have been damaged, and his bones broken and his tendons shredded. 

Credence Barebone is a mistery. So is the disappearing of former Director of Magical Security, Percival Graves. 

Against all odds, Credence survives. Percival doesn't leave him for a second. He lies down beside him during the worst nights, murmurs old fairy tales in his ear, hoping that the stories slither into his nightmares and shoo them away. Mama used to do that to him, when he was a child. 

He doubts Credence's mother ever did anything remotely comforting for her son. 

Percival is there, when Seraphina herself comes to visit. He feels her magic even before she crosses the treshold. She levels Credence with one of her hard stares, but Credence doesn't look back. 

There are heavy bags under his eyes. His hands shake. Percival wants to kick her and the interviewers out, even though he's immensely glad to see her again. Eventually, he doesn't have to bother. 

Miss Hattwell, the old hag, she charges into the room with the fierceness of a Wampus. 

How dares a half-blood medi-nurse with no degree stand up to the President? Easy. She'd been in service at the Ilvermorny infirmary when he and Sera where students. 

She'd seen all of their stunts, and wasn't afraid to yell the lesson at them, until they learned. And yelling she did. 

They'd left Credence alone, after that. Credence didn't thank Miss Hattwell, not explicitly, but the next morning he did take his medicine without making a fuss. Percival is oh so proud of him. 

Speaking of the devil. Miss Hattwell tip toes into the room, shutting the door behind her without making a sound. She's a sturdy woman, with long withe hair clipped together in a tight chignon, and spiderwebs forming patterns over her face. 

She steps to Credence's bedside, and slowly waves her wand above his unconscious form. Percival watches closely, levitating to the ground. 

"Seems alright," the woman mutters to herself. Percival nods, in silent agreement. 

When she leaves, as quiet as she'd come, Percival takes her place at Credence's side. Credence sleeps so soundly, so deeply. He can't help but be humbled. 

Percival is aware of how eerie this might seem to an outsider, all this haunting and watching, but he has the best of intentions; and after all, it was Credence himself who asked him to stay. 

It doesn't matter, Percival thinks, that you can't see me anymore. 

Credence begins to stir. His long lashes flutter, mouth curling ever so slightly. His eyes slowly open, and he blinks up at Percival. He stares right through him, as if he was just a piece of furniture. He wouldn't be too wrong, Percival considers. 

Credence pushes on his elbows, grunting and wheezing, until he's sitting up against the headboard. 

All the while, Percival is resisting the urge to tell him be careful and easy, easy there, careful with your back and your legs and-- everything else, really.

Fortunately, he doesn't seem intentioned to move any further. Credence sighs, palms crossing in his lap. He looks over at the small window on his left: it's a wonderful day outside. The sun is shining, radiant and warm. Credence can't feel it, of course, and neither can Percival. 

What a sad sight we make, Percival thinks. The ghost and the monster-boy.

A sudden knock on the door attracts Percival's attention and shakes Credence out of his thoughts. 

Credence clears his voice, rough with sleep, and beckons the stranger in. Percival frowns; already Credence's relaxed, slack expression has gone tense. Unscheduled visits make him nervous - scheduled ones too, actually. 

In comes Mr Scamander, Newt, with his trusted suitcase. Percival hasn't failed to notice how carefully he guards it, always taking it with him wherever he goes, even into the hospital (he suspects its contents might be related to the disastrous events that led to Grindelwald's imprisonment). 

Newt closes the door behind his back. Much like Hattwell, he makes no noises. Percival throws him an inquiring look. He seems even more on edge than usual. 

"Hi Credence," he says, fiddling with the sleeve of his coat. 

Credence nods politely, but stays silent. Newt seems twice more nervous than him, and that's saying something - Percival used to be suspicious of the constant uneasiness, but has since learned it has nothing to do with some hypothetical evil plan of his; it's just how Newt is. 

Percival lets himself float back up, lazily. He doesn't sleep and he doesn't really get tired, but there are times when he closes his eyes and sees fractions of his life reflected onto the back of his eyelids. It's almost like dreaming, only without the unconsciousness. 

Newt comes closer. He gestures towards the bed, and Credence scoots over, leaving enough space for him to sit. What a gentleman, Percival thinks.

"Credence," Newt says, once he's made himself comfortable, "I know it must be a very harsh moment for you. It must be confusing, and, well, terrifying." 

He pauses here, probably to give Credence a chance to interlude. He doesn't. Instead, he seems to shrink further into himself. Newt notices his mistake, and is quick to add: 

"The hospital is not the, er, most pleasant of places. In my opinion it also isn't the safest, for you. So, I, hum. I have a... a proposal." 

There's a long stretch of silence during which Percival is sure a needle could drop to the ground, and it would make as much noise as an iron anvil. He hovers quietly behind Credence's shoulder, studying the thin lines around Newt's mouth. 

"I am listening," Credence says, finally meeting Newt's eyes. Me too, Percival says. 

Nobody hears him.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading. Next chapter will be uploaded soon - hopefully - thanks in advance to anyone who might leave a comment/kudos! I see u and I appreciate u. Muah.


End file.
